


A Mirror Of Existence

by murakistags



Series: Introspection [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Female-Centric, Gen, Introspection, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Today, the dawn sunrise has left the young woman with a feeling very much reminiscent of the fact that she is on the very cusp of womanhood. Twenty years of her life, she's experienced the rise and fall of this very same sun, felt that very warmth on her skin. While the sun does not change, Abigail feels entirely different than yesterday, and still eons different from just months before. Her demeanour has changed, her mindset is in the process of following suit, and her body too is developing. It's with a strange sort-of nostalgia that she looks upon herself, bare and fearless, in the spotless and glinting bathroom mirror.”</p><p>Abigail takes a good and long, very necessary look at herself. (During S2, post-'death,' when she is secretly in Hannibal's charge.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mirror Of Existence

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on Twitter as @WingsOfAShrike. It's just a little random something that came to mind one evening that had my fingers typing away before I could stop myself. I do have such a soft spot reserved in my heart just for darling Abigail. Enjoy.

There are times at which Abigail Hobbs has to remind herself that she is real, a part of existence, and a living human being. At other times, she is extremely content with playing the fool, pretending as if she is not sentient in the slightest, not a human but instead a monster of her own mindset, hazy and not real. Sometimes it takes pain, physical and raw and hot, to draw her back to reality. And at other times, the numbness that spreads like a winter frost is just perfectly her solution to everything.

 

Today, the dawn sunrise has left the young woman with a feeling very much reminiscent of the fact that she is on the very cusp of womanhood. Twenty years of her life, she's experienced the rise and fall of this very same sun, felt that very warmth on her skin. While the sun does not change, Abigail feels entirely different than yesterday, and still eons different from just months before. Her demeanour has changed, her mindset is in the process of following suit, and her body too is developing. It's with a strange sort-of nostalgia that she looks upon herself, bare and fearless, in the spotless and glinting bathroom mirror. From her head of dark hair, down to the small tufts of it that caress her sex, Abigail Hobbs admires every last line of it. She doesn't feel dislike, nor immense pleasure or satisfaction. It's a feeling impartial, but one of recognition of who she is, and who she will become. 

 

Her hair is straight and thick, brown and level at the very bottom edge which rests nearly against her shoulder blades. She intends to grow out her locks even longer now, though she is unsure of what Hannibal would have to say of that. She suspects that on some level he wouldn't care either way, but as the fussy connoisseur of only the finest aesthetics that Dr. Lecter is, it's hard for Abigail to imagine that he wouldn't have some opinion on the matter. She herself thinks it would look pretty, long enough to leave at times in one thick plait drawn forward over her shoulder. A look from the movies, one young but also womanly.

 

A little lower is another tuft of hair, matching on either side beneath a pallid forehead. Brows are thick but shapely, and they suit her face with that arch of hairs just perfect. They accent her eyes surrounded by lashes dense and dark as midnight, lashes that give her face a sultry look should she flutter them in lust. Abigail never much thought of lust in such a sense, until now. Staring back into her own minty-blue eyes in that bathroom mirror, she can't help but wonder if she would be defined as _sexy_. Her eyes drift lower to try and find the answer.

 

Clavicles don't jut too terribly against her skin, but they are visible and stretched taut. It gives her slanted and slim shoulders a nice curve, just as smooth and pretty as the vermillion border of her pink lips. Naturally pouty in a way, they are, but behind them are pearly teeth and words of wisdom. As Hannibal had said once to her: one does not get wiser as they grow older. Abigail can admit, even to her unstable self, that she is relatively wise, though those teeth and tongue rarely have a chance to display it. College and social interactions have been stripped from her future, for now at least, and she can feel the longing deep within her to return to some semblance of that 'normal' life again.

 

Her breasts are perky, decently sized in her opinion, and very cute. Her areolae are tan-coloured and smooth, and her very nipples are pink and youthful, and pert. The swell of the skin beneath her breasts is so lithe and suave, leading down into her belly next.

 

Eyes scanning into the glass, the vanity lights reflect dark granite countertops of the bathroom with a lovely shimmer, one that gives her smooth belly a wonderful glow. She is thin, but her ribs do not show. There is not a freckle or a scar in sight on her abdomen, from that cute little innie belly button, to the slow curve of her waist, and the slim dip lower to visible pelvic bones. Thighs are full, and they press together in the middle with a small cup of skin more intimate and warm, utterly untouched and virginal even at the end of twenty years of her life. It's something she bears a pride in, a pride kept secret and most likely never to come to light. Hannibal seems too strict to entertain talk of such things, and Abigail is almost certain that broaching the topic would not be awkward in the slightest with his smooth personality and accented voice, but it would most definitely be something erring on the side of clinical and unemotional. It'd be one more route for him to get inside her in an intimate way, seeping through her skull and taking up thought from a mind (mostly) pure of such sexual deviancy. The sight between her legs is also what Abigail defines to herself as normal, but acceptable. The gentle tufts of dark hair there, the smoothness of skin beside it, the pinkness of her slick flesh past tan and soft folds…it is all very human. It's a reminder that she is.

 

Could someone see her, then, as beautiful? Sexy, worthy of sharing a bed with, sharing emotions and love and _passion_ …? Could someone look at her as she looks at herself now, and see every inch of her body the most beautiful sculpture in the world? All these thoughts run through her mind, until the sting of a phantom blade runs through her neck. Abigail's eyes, in their haste to see to her sexuality, had overlooked the glaring scar at her neck. A curve of torn flesh mended and stitched, pruny and dark and uneven, edges jagged and raised, follows the horizontal arc of a cervical vertebrae deep in the flesh below. The crescent-shaped mark is unbearably sharp in the mirror, leaving every edge to her keen sight and nothing at all to the imagination. Memories do not come to her in this instance, for she removes herself from the situation quickly. She is but an onlooker in this realm reflected in glass, in the bathroom of a home grand and lavish in every sense by the good doctor himself. She is not Abigail, but a spectator to Abigail. To the mess which happened that fateful morning.

 

Hazy in expression, her head tilts to one side, and then the other, chin bending upwards just enough to stretch the scar tissue very tightly. It exposes every little imperfection, and it makes her start to grimace. As an onlooker, she finds it very ugly. Off-putting and disgusting enough that she wouldn't put her own lips to it, she would not kiss it sweetly and breathe moans into the scar, near teeth against in it pleasure as the bed rocks with their passionate ministrations. She sees it as a defect, a mark akin to a brand, never able to leave skin for as long as she continues to exist.

 

Yet, she exists.

 

And so does Hannibal. Hannibal–…

 

How long had she been standing here naked, staring at her own being after her morning shower? How long more, she wonders, before his skilled hand comes knocking on the bathroom door, that honey voice murmuring in accented syllables a question of whether or not she's okay, and that breakfast is ready? Ah, she was so easily sidetracked, again.

 

Unable to watch any longer, unable to drift fingers along her breast and between her thighs, against sensitive flesh to withdraw her own pleasures and passion from within, unable to afford herself that luxury… Abigail Hobbs quickly dresses. By the time she is in fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt covered by a silky robe, smelling sweetly of vanilla and rose hips, she has plastered a smile on her face again. These false feelings mirror herself so well, mirror what she wishes to be real.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


End file.
